


Seeing is Believing

by leavinghope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Mrs. Hudson, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Torture, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Unhappy marriage, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9103471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leavinghope/pseuds/leavinghope
Summary: Immediately Post-TAB. John and Mary take Sherlock back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is there, and she sees everything, including what wants to remain unseen.





	1. Chapter 1

"Come on, just sit down on the bed." John Watson used his most soothing voice, but to no avail.

"No, no time, no time." Sherlock Holmes struggled against John.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, you almost overdosed. We're just trying to help you." Mary Watson's voice was all exasperation and no affection.

Sherlock was determined to stay upright, however. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just need to focus." 

John reached out and gently nudged Sherlock in the shoulder, causing him to plop down on the bed. Sherlock looked up at John in surprise.

"You are in no condition to focus. You need to sleep, and I need to monitor your vitals. The only reason you're here at Baker Street and not at hospital or Mycroft's is because I promised him I'd keep an eye on you. So shut up and do what I tell you!" John had not intended to shout, but the stress of the events of the day was building and needed a release.

Suddenly a soft smile appeared on Sherlock's face as he looked around his bedroom. "Baker Street. Never thought I'd see it again." He lay back on the bed, legs still dangling over the side. "I guess it wouldn't be so awful to rest awhile in this bed. My bed. My own bed."

John's eyes met Mary's, and together they started to undress Sherlock as he babbled happily about his bedroom.

"My periodic table!" One shoe off.

Sherlock waved at a lithograph of bees. "Hello!" Other shoe off.

"Oh, my socks." One sock off.

"You haven't disturbed my sock index, have you?" Other off.

As John pulled Sherlock back up to a sitting position to take off his jacket, Sherlock grabbed John's shirt-front and pulled him close. "You'll stay with me, right?"

As always, being the subject of Sherlock's intense focus overwhelmed John. In a broken voice, he replied, "Of course."

Mary leaned over and patted Sherlock's shoulder. "We'll both be right here if you need us."

Sherlock did not acknowledge Mary, instead clutching John even closer to him. "Please, stay with me."

"I'll be right here, I promise." John gently detached Sherlock's hands from his shirt and pulled away. He grabbed Sherlock's legs and swung him up onto the bed. "Go to sleep. I'll still be here when you wake up."

Sherlock nudged his head deeper into his pillow. "My pillow." And then his breathing deepened, falling asleep.

Mary untucked Sherlock's shirt, but as John reached for the buttons, she said, "That's enough."

"I think he'll be more comfortable with his pajamas on, not fully dressed."

Mary pulled the duvet over Sherlock. "I think we've done enough to make him comfortable."

John looked at Sherlock, who had started to emit little snores. "Guess he'll be fine as he is."

Mary smiled, happy to have gotten her way. "Good."

As she turned and left the room, John wondered if Mary hadn't wanted him to see the scar she herself had left on Sherlock's chest. _Not now_ , he thought to himself. _Must concentrate on Sherlock_. John grabbed Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse and was satisfied at its current steady pace. He studied Sherlock's face - unflushed, no sign of sweating, smooth inhalations and exhalations. Finally, John could allow himself to calm down. They seemed to have avoided the worst.

Mary called from the sitting room. "John?"

At the sound of Mary's voice, John placed the wrist he'd been unthinkingly caressing with his thumb down on top of the duvet. He walked quickly out of the bedroom, glancing back to assure himself Sherlock was still asleep. His stomach churned unpleasantly as he saw Mary sitting in Sherlock's chair. "Did you need something?"

"No. I was just bored waiting for you."

"I was busy."

"What, watching Sherlock sleep?" Mary grimaced disdainfully. "He's fine, John. He doesn't need you here."

"Well, I beg to differ on that."

"Is that a professional opinion, Doctor Watson?"

John was about to respond to Mary's sarcasm, when Mrs. Hudson lightly tapped on the frame of the open door. "John, I wasn't expecting to see you here." She stopped abruptly when she saw Mary.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

The coldest expression John had ever seen appeared on Mrs. Hudson's face. She straightened her posture and said, "You are not welcome here. Leave now."

John barked a disbelieving laugh. "Mrs. Hudson, what are you going on about?"

Keeping her eyes on Mary, Mrs. Hudson asked, "Is Sherlock here? Is he alright?"

John replied, "He's in bed, asleep for now."

Mrs. Hudson finally looked at John. "When Sherlock is awake, he can invite this woman into his flat. But right now, I'm the landlady of this flat and the owner of this building, and she is not welcome here."

"Mary is my wife. Of course, she is welcome here."

"You don't live here anymore, John. You don't have any say here."

John felt like Mrs. Hudson had punched him in the gut.

Mary struggled to rise from Sherlock's chair. "It's not worth arguing, John. Let's leave."

"I can't leave Sherlock in his condition. You know what drugs he's taken, how much."

"Call Mycroft and have him send someone. Mrs. Hudson can watch till then."

"He needs medical supervision. Mrs. Hudson loves him, but she isn't what he needs right now. And in any case, I promised him I'd be here when he woke up."

"He probably won't even remember, John. We're going." Mary grabbed her purse and coat.

"No."

"No?"

John clenched his hands, his tell of determination. "No. I'm not leaving him."

Mary threw her hands in the air. "Oh, that's just great. You're choosing this addict over your pregnant wife!"

"Don't. Just don't. You never get to talk about Sherlock like that. In fact, you never get to talk about him ever, do you hear me?"

"Oh, yeah, I hear you." Mary walked towards the door. "We'd have been better off if his plane never got called back."

John was left speechless at the heartlessness of Mary's words. Mrs. Hudson, however, responded, "Do not return here until Sherlock or I invite you back. Are we clear?"

"Oh, we're clear. But I'm not the sort who waits for an invitation. You'll see me when I want you to see me."

"I see you right now, and I'm still standing here, telling you to leave my property."

The two women stared at each other on either side of the threshold. After his agony over Sherlock's exile and anger over his resulting overdose, John could not deal with this any longer. "Mary, just leave, please."

Mary smirked at John. "I'm going. And I'll expect you home soon."

Mrs. Hudson shut the seldom-used door of the flat in Mary's face before John had a chance to respond. As she turned around, Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms in front of her body and glared at John. Her disappointment washed over him, engulfing him and becoming one with his own shame.

"Did Sherlock tell you?"

"About what?" Her voice was curt and unwelcoming.

Barely above a whisper, John said, "Mary."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No, but I've been around a lot longer than you, young man. I can put things together." She put both hands on her hips and stared at John."Why did you abandon him to go back to her?"

"That isn't what happened."

"Isn't it?"

"She's having our baby."

"So sure about that, are you?" Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. Go check on Sherlock. I'll bring up some tea."

After Mrs. Hudson left, John collapsed into his old chair. Mrs. Hudson had given voice to a fear he'd been ignoring for months. If Mary had lied about so many other things, why should he trust her in this? He hated to think she could lie about something as important as becoming a parent, but he did not know her. And what he'd seen of her today emphasized the fact he never truly would.

A teacup appeared in his field of view. As he accepted it, he said, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She sat down across from him, in Sherlock's chair. She sipped her tea, then made a concerted effort at polite conversation. "Are you looking forward to being a father?"

John knew he shouldn't be surprised by the question, but the tumult of the previous months meant nobody had asked him yet. "Yeah." He nodded his head. "Very much, now that I've gotten used to the idea. Never gave much thought to it before, and we weren't actually trying to get pregnant. But, yes, I'm really looking forward to meeting our little girl."

A sad smile appeared on Mrs. Hudson's face. "That's lovely, dear."

The two drank their tea in silence. John allowed himself to become relaxed in the familiar surroundings - the tattered furniture, the dusty mantle, the sounds of Baker Street coming through the open windows. He was also comforted by what he did not hear, as no distress was emanating from Sherlock's room.

"It was on your wedding night." Mrs. Hudson broke the silence.

"What was?"

"When he started using again. It was your wedding night."

John's hand shook too much for him to hold the teacup, so he placed it on his side table. "How do you know?"

"I saw the condition he was in the next day. He tried to hide it, of course. But I knew."

"He said it was for the Magnussen case."

"Well, he lied."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Interrupt your honeymoon? Tell me, John, if I had called, would you have come running back to London?"

At John's hesitation, Mrs. Hudson continued. "And even if you had, what would you have done? After one day of marriage and having just found out about the baby, would you really have wanted to confront Sherlock about the truth?"

John shifted in his chair. "Never a good time to confront an addict."

"That isn't what I meant."

"I don't understand."

"I'm sure you don't want to." Mrs. Hudson ran her hand over the beautiful wood grain of Sherlock's violin, in its stand next to his chair. The waltz Sherlock composed for his wedding drifted through John's mind, as he was sure Mrs. Hudson had intended. Reminding John that Sherlock had written a love song for him.

Avoiding the implication, John instead asked, "Today. Why were you surprised Sherlock came back?"

"Oh, John." Frustrated, she began, "Why don't you want to face…"

John interrupted before Mrs. Hudson could finish. "Did he say anything to you about where he was going?"

Mrs. Hudson spent a few moments looking at her clasped hands, resting in her lap. "You know how everything was left the same here, during those two years Sherlock was gone?"

"Yes."

"Well, I didn't need to find new tenants because Mycroft said he was grieving too much, that he'd deal with Sherlock's belongings later." Mrs. Hudson reached out to pat John's knee. "I wasn't in any hurry to force you to get your stuff, either. I was always hoping you'd come back."

An old guilt welled up in John. "I'm so sorry about how I treated you during those years, Mrs. Hudson."

"That's all water under the bridge now, sweetheart." Mrs. Hudson paused. When she finally spoke, her voice quavered. "Mycroft visited me a few days ago. He told me he would send movers next week."

Adrenaline surged through John, forcing him to take deep heaving breaths. He gasped out, "Sherlock wasn't coming back this time. He really wasn't. I thought the drama was just for show, but… Oh, god, this was a suicide mission. No wonder…"

With urgency, she asked, "What?"

"Mrs. Hudson, this overdose… I think he may have tried to kill himself." John pushed himself up from his seat and rushed down the hallway to Sherlock's bedroom. He stood in the doorway and breathed a cleansing sigh of relief as he watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall, heart alive and beating. He braced himself against the doorframe, weakened by his understanding of all Sherlock had and was willing to sacrifice for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all of you for reading my stories and sharing yours with me. I hope your 2017 brings you everything you hope for. Now, on to Series 4. Good luck to all of us!

John had no idea how long he'd been watching Sherlock breathe before Mrs. Hudson joined him and whispered, "You can't expect him to be comfortable still in his clothes. Let's get him changed, shall we?"

Mrs. Hudson chose some pajamas out of the bureau as John walked over to Sherlock's bedside. He brushed strands of hair from Sherlock's forehead and gauged his temperature to be normal. After a quick check of his pulse, John looked up to see Mrs. Hudson smiling at him. "It's just good to see you taking care of him again."

"I wish he didn't need me to take care of him, least not because of this."

Mrs. Hudson sighed, but only said. "Come on, dear. I think it'll be easier to start with the trousers, if our goal is to try to keep him asleep."

John nodded in agreement. Sherlock did not stir as John pulled back the duvet. Mrs. Hudson quickly unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers and started to tug them off. She paused and then said, "Lift up his feet. I can do it myself, but it'll be easier if you help."

"Sorry." He lifted Sherlock's feet, and Mrs. Hudson used the leverage to strip Sherlock down to his pants. John stared at her competence. "You seem very good at this."

"Well, I had to help him dress and undress a lot last autumn."

"Hold on, what?" John tried to stifle his anger at the perceived censure of Mrs. Hudson's words. "He said he didn't want any help."

"Lift again."

John obeyed Mrs. Hudson's demand, and she quickly had soft pajama trousers up and over Sherlock's waist. She draped the duvet over his lower half, patting his leg as she did so. She paused in her movements, sadness obvious in her face.

Not wanting to intrude on her thoughts, John reached for the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. Mrs. Hudson reached across the bed to still his arm. "You tended to his gunshot wound. They let him come back to Baker Street because you are a doctor and would be looking after him."

"Yes, all that is true."

"But you never undressed him?"

"No. He wouldn't let me. There was no exit wound out the back, so he would just lift up his shirt to I could inspect the site and change the bandage." When Mrs. Hudson gasped and bit down on her lower lip, John's whole body ached with dread. "Mrs. Hudson, what aren't you saying?"

"Oh, it isn't what I'm not saying, dear, but rather what he didn't say." Mrs. Hudson threaded her fingers through Sherlock's hair, petting him a few times as an unwaking Sherlock leaned into her touch. "I guess it's time."

John stood by as Mrs. Hudson unbuttoned Sherlock shirt. She leaned over and put her arms around his shoulders. "Budge up, love. Time to put on your pajamas."

Sherlock blinked awake, and when he could finally focus, he smiled. "Mrs. Hudson? Hudders, you old bat. How did you get here?"

"You're at Baker Street, silly boy. Don't be rude."

Sherlock looked at her with suspicion. "I was on a plane."

"Yes, where you overdosed and had to be brought back here."

His eyes grew wide. "Moriarty. Is he here? Has he hurt you?"

"No, I'm quite alright. I'd be even better if you helped me change your clothes.”

Grogginess robbing him of his normal grace, Sherlock attempted to shrug out of his fitted shirt.

"Cuffs first, dear."

Mrs. Hudson did one cuff, while Sherlock did the other. She opened up his shirt, and he started to pull out a slender arm before drawing Mrs. Hudson close to him. "John. John. Is he here? He was here, wasn't he?"

John started to speak, but Mrs. Hudson waved him off with her free hand. "He is still here, of course. He would never leave you when you need him. He'll be waiting for you when you wake up. I think you're going to get yelled at about the drugs, quite frankly."

"He can yell as much as he wants. I deserve it. I always deserve it. But don't let him see me without my shirt on. Please."

The look Mrs. Hudson shot at John ensured his silence. She began to pull Sherlock's arms free from his sleeves. "Don't be shy, dear. John's a doctor. He's seen it all before. He's seen all of you before, the way you traipse around here, you know."

"I don't want to upset him. I always upset him."

John clasped both hands over his mouth to keep from crying out. Mrs. Hudson had exposed a network of scars on Sherlock's back. Evidence of pain, of torture, of suffering, of horrors Sherlock had kept from his best friend. The scars had not been present before Sherlock's time away. Their texture indicated multiple violations and lack of treatment.He catalogued scars from knives, whips, and at least one metal rod before Mrs. Hudson pulled Sherlock's sleep shirt down over his back.

"There, all covered now. You just go right back to sleep."

Sherlock fell back onto his pillows, and Mrs. Hudson tucked him in. Before she straightened up, Sherlock reached out and touched her cheek. "I don't thank you enough. Almost lost my chance today, so thank you."

She bent down to kiss his forehead. "You're very welcome. Sleep now."

John felt tears streaming down his cheeks, but he could not stop them. Mrs. Hudson wisely did not comment upon them as the two watched over Sherlock as he fell asleep. Once his breathing steadied, Mrs. Hudson went into the loo and turned on its light. Then she turned off the light on the bedside table.

"The light helps to keep the bad dreams away." John wiped the tears from his face as Mrs. Hudson spoke. "The nightmares were pretty bad when he first came back. I'd hear him call out, sometimes in languages I didn't understand. Your name, too, quite frequently."

"I stayed over several times, even before this autumn. Late night cases, I'd sleep over, and I never heard any nightmares."

"Of course not. He had you near." Mrs. Hudson pressed her lips together to compose herself before continuing. "I got into the habit of bringing his tea up earlier and earlier in the morning, just to remind him I was in the building."

"Why did he keep this from me? I should have known. He should have told me."

"What good would it have done? You had moved on. You had a life without him. It wasn't like you'd move back or delay your wedding, the one he planned for you, by the way. Because he wanted you to be happy. He wants you to be happy." She grabbed John's hand. "And it breaks my heart that you went back to her, when he loves you enough to let you go."

"Mrs. Hudson, he doesn't…" Even as John struggled with the words, she cut him off.

"Don't you dare spout such lies. Not to me. Never again."

John felt naked, his defenses stripped away in front of this woman who loved Sherlock and who saw so much. "Why didn't I see? Why didn't I know?"

"You're not very good at seeing what you don't want to see."

John heard the truth of her words. John did not want to see Sherlock's pain, just as he'd never wanted to see Mary's lies. Because Mary was the lie he could cling to, preventing him from running back to Sherlock and their chaotic, frustrating, exhilarating life together. The life John ran from, because he was afraid of giving Sherlock power over him again. And yet here they were, two broken, unhappy men without each other.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, his back to John. "I should have protected him. Mrs. Hudson, I did this to him."

John wrapped his arms around his midsection, holding onto himself to prevent him from reaching out to Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson, of course, saw right through him. "Take off your shoes."

"What?"

"Belt and trousers, too."

John found himself obeying. Mrs. Hudson lifted the duvet. "Get in."

"Really?" Even though John knew Mrs. Hudson had been leading up to this, he still could not believe she was asking him to share Sherlock's bed.

"Yes. Sherlock will sleep better with you next to him, and you'll get some peace, too. Otherwise, you'd just be up all night in the doorway." Seeing John's uncertainty, she said, "Stop being stubborn and get in. That's an order."

John forced himself through his boundaries and slid into bed beside Sherlock. Familiar scents and unfamiliar warmth filled John with surprising contentment. He settled on his back, closed his eyes and felt Mrs. Hudson draw the duvet over him and Sherlock. Her hand briefly rested on his shoulder. "I'll be back early in the morning. Good night, dear."

Mrs. Hudson shut the door with a gentle click, yet it was enough to rouse Sherlock from his slumber. John attempted to remain perfectly still, but had to smile when he heard Sherlock sniffing.

"John?"

"You can detect me by scent now?"

An awkward silence hovered for a few beats, and then Sherlock said, "You're quite distinctive."

"Oh, god, do I even want to know?"

"Tea, cheap shampoo and adrenaline."

John giggled, and Sherlock joined in. Then John's doctor instincts took over. "How are you feeling?"

"Incredibly hungover."

"Go brush your teeth and drink some water, then come back to bed."

Sherlock slowly got up, obviously concentrating on keeping on his feet, and walked to the loo. John watched him long enough to assure himself Sherlock was in no danger of keeling over. He rested his head back on the pillow and drank in the strange sensation of being in Sherlock's bed. The texture on the ceiling was different than on his old bedroom upstairs. The sounds of the plumbing were just a little bit louder.

After a few minutes, Sherlock returned and stood next to the bed. "John?"

"Get back in."

Sherlock quickly dove back under the covers and turned onto his side, facing John. "Did you help Mrs. Hudson change my clothes?"

Tempted to lie, John instead simply said, "Yes."

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

John shifted to support his head on one hand and looked at Sherlock. He thought he could see tears shimmering in Sherlock's eyes and hoped the dim lighting in the room was playing tricks instead. "Sherlock, you have many things to be sorry about, but not those scars."

"I should have told you. It's just difficult…" Sherlock paused, perhaps not wanting to admit a weakness.

"It's difficult to talk about. I understand, believe me." John thought of his own scars, both physical and emotional. "We don't need to discuss them now, but if you ever want to…"

"Thank you, John."

"However, tomorrow we will discuss your drug use and how angry I am about that."

Sherlock nodded and then he yawned, spurring one in response from John.

"However, now let's just get some sleep, okay?"

"You'll stay with me?" Sherlock's voice was shy, hopeful, and broken all at once.

"All night," John replied.

"Good." Sherlock pulled the duvet snug around his shoulders. "I apologize in advance if I kick or punch in my sleep. Don't really know what I do, but sometimes I wake up with muscle fatigue."

"I should warn you I sometimes shout in my dreams." John put his head down on his own pillow, still turned towards Sherlock. "We're a pair, aren't we?"

"Quite a good team."

John noticed Sherlock's hand in the space between them and covered it with one of his own. "Go to sleep. I've got you."

Sherlock threaded his fingers with John's. "That, I never doubt. Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock."

Quicker than John would have expected, Sherlock fell asleep. John focused on the sensation of their intertwined fingers. The two men had never exchanged such an intimate touch. John could feel calluses from the violin and roughness from the dry, cold winter air. _So human after all._ John brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to the warm skin. In his sleep, Sherlock smiled. _Must repeat the experiment. Seeing is believing._ Sherlock indeed smiled again. But this time he brought John's hand to his chest and held it over his heart. And suddenly John saw the future he never allowed himself to see before, never believed was possible for him and this beautiful man.

John fell asleep, his heart matching Sherlock's, beat for beat.

Eventually, a quiet, yet sharp, noise woke John. His initial instinct to grab his gun from the side table was quickly overwhelmed by the sensation of the warm body in his arms. The scent of Sherlock and the sound of his breathing grounded John in the present, and he realized what he'd heard was the sound of the bedroom door being opened. He glanced over Sherlock's shoulder to see Mrs. Hudson silhouetted in the doorway.

Mrs. Hudson silently lifted her hand to our mouth, miming taking a drink, while raising her eyebrows in question. John nodded, mouthing "Thanks" and Mrs. Hudson left, undoubtedly to prepare tea for John and Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

John propped himself up on one elbow and looked over Sherlock with a clinical eye. No sign of fever, comfortable breathing pattern. John carefully unwrapped his arm from around Sherlock's waist and touched his neck. As John felt the strong, steady pulse underneath his fingers, he sighed in relief.

As he moved his arm back to his side, the blanket covering them both slipped from Sherlock's shoulders **,** the dawn light dimly filtering through the curtained windows exposing subtle ridges of scars through the thin fabric of Sherlock's shirt. John gave into impulse and placed a quick kiss on Sherlock's back. Tears welled in his eyes and he whispered apologies between several more kisses, as if each kiss could remove the scars it touched. Then he rested his forehead against Sherlock's back. _What am I doing? I can't have this._

John slowly extracted himself from the bed. He grabbed his clothes and dressed as quietly as he could. He watched Sherlock, still sleeping off the effects of the previous day. He had no idea if Sherlock would remember their conversation. He did not know if he wanted him to.

When John arrived in the sitting room, Mrs. Hudson had tea ready. "Will Sherlock be joining us?"

"Probably better to let him sleep for now." John sat in his chair, but it wasn't really his anymore, was it? He felt the lure of Baker Street pulling at him, the lure of Sherlock and his bed. _But this isn't home_ , he reminded himself.

Mrs. Hudson saw the decision on his face. "You're going back to her."

"There is a baby involved, Mrs. Hudson. I have to remember my duty to them both."

"Do you still love her, John?"

John chose his next words carefully. "I love the woman I married."

"But you love him, too." Mrs. Hudson did not phrase it as a question, so John felt no compulsion to answer.

"I don't know what will happen to Sherlock without you." Mrs. Hudson's voice broke. "You're breaking his heart."

And after all he had seen, John allowed himself to admit it, just this once. "I know."

 

 


End file.
